


darker at night

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, but it's reluctant toplock, toplock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Sherlock is like a drug and John can't not have him.<br/>*WIP*</p>
            </blockquote>





	darker at night

The whisky from the kitchen cupboard had been John’s only company that night. Sherlock was out, doing God-knows-what, not needing him, not even wanting him along. He had been back, what? Two years? Almost and it showed. He had come to learn to care for himself, fed himself healthy foods nowadays without needing someone to tell him to and he had learned to get along better with people.

John was useless to him now.

Never mind that John still needed Sherlock just as much.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dark, wallowing in self-pity and gradually emptying what was left in the bottle, when the downstairs door opened. John sat up a bit straighter, he didn’t want Sherlock to _see_ just how useless he really was. He counted the steps like a reverse countdown to when he was to be found out. 

15\. 16. 17. 

Halt on the landing.

Hand on the door knob.

Door opens, eyes fall on John on the couch. Looking for any sign of anything, a struggle maybe or a tantrum.

Finding none.

1\. 2. 3.

“John?” he asked confused. “Did something happen?”

John almost snorted. If only.

“Nothing,” he said, stressing the _no_. Sherlock crossed the room slowly and came to stop next to him.

“What’s wrong? Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked and John shushed him with a hiss. Sherlock’s mouth snapped audibly shut.

John held out his hand, palm up. He saw Sherlock’s head move down sharply at the gesture, mustering it intensely before he, very carefully as if he was afraid to have misread John’s intent, put his own hand in John’s. John pulled.

It took some effort, but in the end Sherlock got the gist and he fell down heavily on John’s lap, his knees on either side of his thighs. John cupped his head in one of his hands and the swell of his arse with the other, using it to pull him closer.

“John?” Sherlock asked again, a bit breathlessly and very, very confused. John felt bad for making him do this, but he couldn’t stop himself either.

“I’m sorry,” he said miserably, and, “Can I do this?”

“Can you do what? John?” Sherlock repeated, lost. It didn’t take a genius to find out _what_ when John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, the one he had fantasised about biting raw so often, and when he ground his hips up and pressed the beginnings of his erection into Sherlock.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed and fell silent afterwards.

“Please tell me this is okay,” John asked him deperately. He needed it, the reassurance that Sherlock was okay with going ahead, approved of John touching him and maybe more. He stilled his thumb on Sherlock’s lip when none was forthcoming and took his hand away when it hit him what that meant. He cursed the alcohol in his blood that had made him think this had been a good idea.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John apologised. His hands both fell to his side limply. “Christ, I’m such an arse.”

But Sherlock didn’t move away now that John had released him. John searched his face but it was too dark to see much of anything.

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed finally, barely above a breath.

“Okay?” John repeated. Sherlock just nodded, his eyes fixed on something in the vicinity of John’s collarbone.

“Okay,” John said again. Unsure if this was what he thought it was, he brought his hands back to hold Sherlock’s hips. He was still wearing his coat, ridiculously, and John moved his hands up to his shoulders and slipped it off him. It fell to the ground in an almost silent heap, a whisper of fabric that felt loud in the quiet flat.

Then John kissed Sherlock.

>>

Afterwards, Sherlock climbed off his lap and fell heavily into the couch next to John. He zipped up his trousers and his head hit the cushion, tilted up and staring at the ceiling wordlessly. John felt like a complete tit. The bliss of his orgasm was fading much too fast.

He cursed himself. No use in blaming the alcohol, he wasn't even that drunk. He had practically forced his best friend into sex. The best man he had ever known, an asexual, an innocent, a _virgin_ , and he had forced himself on him by using pity as a lever.

John jumped up, a sudden surge of nausea making him run for the toilet where he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach. Sherlock was a few steps behind him.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a tone as miserable as John felt. John turned his head around, wiping his mouth and flushing the toilet. Sherlock asking an obvious question. It said more about his state of mind than any words ever could. John laughed mirthlessly.

"No, I'm fucking not all right," he ground out between his teeth. Sherlock hung his head for a moment and when he looked up at John again, his look was stony and shut off. John wanted to cry.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he implored, his tone devoid of all the vitriol from a moment ago.

"Can you forget this ever happened?" It was a cheap shot, but if Sherlock was willing to forgive him, John thought he might have a chance of writing this off and apologise profoundly, showing Sherlock that he wouldn't take advantage of his friendship ever again. If he could just forgive him this one slip, John would prove it worth his while. He needed this so badly. There just was no way he could bear to lose Sherlock over a stupid mistake committed in self-pity. John would do anything to stop that from happening, but he couldn't turn back time.

"Of course. I'll delete it if you want me to," Sherlock told him solemnly. John scanned his face, looking for a clue as to what he was really feeling and finding none. He sighed.

"Yes please," he said, hating how weak he sounded.

>>

The next day wasn't as akward as John had feared. He supposed it helped that he was severely hungover, which made him realise, once more, that he wasn't getting any younger but still crushing on people that were unreachable like he was still in his teens. Something had to change.

It was made worse when Sherlock handed him a glass of ice cold water the moment John set foot in the kitchen, and two paracetamol with dry toast. Reminding John of how good a friend he was to him. His stomach churned at the thought and it was only half of it because of the aftereffects of the alcohol in his system. He went to sit on his chair, his head buried in his hands and the tips of his fingers massaging away the headache that was plagueing him until he heard the flat door in the kitchen close softly. Sherlock had left; him. 

John had to go at this rationally and by considering all the facts.

Fact: He was attracted to his best friend. Counter fact: His best friend was asexual, thereby by definition not attracted to John or any person.

Fact: John was in love with Sherlock. Counter fact: Sherlock loved him back, but not in a romantic way. This would hurt like fuck in the long term.

>>

Over the span of a few days John became more and more high-strung and sleep became almost impossible for him as a result. He tried the age old remedy for insomnia, a high percentage drink that burned so good down his throat, and then a second and third when sleep still eluded him.

He kept the light off because he didn't want to attract any attention as it was well after midnight. Also, John was acutely aware of how pathetic he was, drinking alone in the quiet of the night hoping it would calm his mind that was roused by his hopeless pining. He resolved to go to bed now and count sheep or something, because anything would be better than the forth glass of whisky that had been flirting with him those last ten minutes. Only when John got up to put his tumbler into the sink did he notice how drunk he already was. He grabbed the edges of the kitchen counter to steady himself, to take a deep breath and to give the world time to stop spinning. It was like this that Sherlock found him.

"John?" he asked in confusion. "Is everything all right? Did something happen?"

John laughed without mirth. He shook his head, but said, "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry I woke you. Go back to bed, I'm just turning in myself." But Sherlock didn't leave, stubborn, curious man that he was. He walked up to John instead.

"Would you tell me if something was wrong?" he asked softly. Miserably. Expecting the lie that was to be his answer. So John spared him at least that and didn't reply.

He felt Sherlock’s presence behind him. The alcohol sharpened his senses, or maybe it was his imagination, but John sensed him so much at that moment. When Sherlock laid his hand down on his shoulder, it didn’t come as a surprise. It didn’t mean John didn’t jump. He was being grabbed so hard.

Sherlock tugged at him, wanted him to turn around. John was determined not to let him see his face. God only knew what Sherlock could read in there. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock said. It almost sounded like he was begging and did that not shoot a spark of electricity down John’s spine and burned his soul. He hung his head, feeling utterly defeated and worthless. How could _he_ make Sherlock sound like that?

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said in a broken voice. “Could you-- would you leave me alone? Please?” But instead, Sherlock heard something in his voice that made him put his arms around John awkwardly, one over his chest, the other around his waist. After a moment of just holding John, Sherlock slid his right hand artlessly down John’s stomach. John only had time to suck in his stomach in a sharp intake of breath before clumsy fingers disappeared inside his pants.

“Jesus, what are you doing?” he huffed airlessly.

“You want it,” was Sherlock’s only explanation. He sounded distant.

His hand closed around John’s penis and arousal surged through John in such a rush that his knees buckled, his legs felt incapable of holding him up and he had to put his hand into Sherlock’s hair to keep from falling down. Sherlock tightened his grip around his chest.

“Oh God, oh Jesus,” John moaned. He threw his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder, presenting his neck and Sherlock immediately latched unto it with his lips. His hand on John’s cock began stroking along the rapidly expanding length.

“Oh fuck, oh God, no, noo, fuck,” John groaned. In his inebriated state he didn’t notice that Sherlock’s hand was too hot and too dry to feel good. But good it felt. Between his lips on John’s neck and his long fingers circling the glans of his cock and pressing down on the frenulum, John grew fully hard and came after only a few minutes all over his hand. John let the hand that was still clutching Sherlock’s hair fall. His breathing was laboured and he completely depended on Sherlock to hold him upright as he tried to calm down. 

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock whispered to him. John chuckled darkly.

“This can’t keep happening,” he said staring straight ahead. He couldn’t look at Sherlock. John couldn’t comprehend what made Sherlock feel like he had to do this for him. Already he felt the shame and guilt that was only barely hidden below the bliss of the orgasm, the shame of using a man that was so invested in his happiness to satisfy his own urges. It had been a while since John realised that Sherlock would do anything for him, and while that felt reassuring, because John would do the same and more if possible for him, he felt like a complete human failure for using this willingness to get an orgasm. Slowly he turned around and even slowlier he raised his eyes until they met Sherlock’s.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am. This can’t continue…” John was talking more to himself, but he hoped Sherlock could accept his apology. He couldn’t keep using him, but John was too weak. He was begging Sherlock to put a stop to it for him.

>>

John got a date. A blonde woman, a bit on the plumb side, the exact opposite of Sherlock because he thought that would be easier. He was wrong. It was fucking difficult.

He told Sherlock about the date, mentioned it again just before he left and hoped Sherlock would give him a reason to cancel it. He didn’t. Sherlock’s cold eyes ran over him appraisingly.

“Good luck,” he wished him insincerely. John ran his hand through his hair.

“If something comes up, text me,” he said, waited and left when Sherlock thoroughly ignored him. During his date, John had his hand on his phone constantly and willed it to ring. It did so after only twenty minutes and he breathed a sigh of relief that his date couldn’t miss. She looked at him very put-upon, but John already couldn’t even remember her name.

“This is the only text I will send you tonight,” glared up at him from the screen of his phone. John frowned at the words, tried to figure out their meaning. He pulled a blank.

“Is something wrong?” his date asked irritatedly.

John left.

>>

He didn’t go home directly. That Sherlock didn’t need him, didn’t want him, that much was clear from his short text and the way he had behaved earlier. What else it could mean John tried to work out in a pub. By last order he still hadn’t got it. The cab ride home was too short, too.

The flat was dark when he arrived, which was odd. It was barely midnight and the only time Sherlock ever went to bed so early was when he had been awake for days. It stood to reason that John check if he was there at all and so he walked up to his room.

The door was closed which usually meant Sherlock was in, but John checked none-the-less. He was lying in his bed and still awake.

“Did your date not go well?” Sherlock asked acidly. John stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. That at least got Sherlock’s full attention. John took a deep breath.

“I want you to fuck me,” he stated remarkably calm. Sherlock blinked at him a few times. When he answered at last, he was furious and jumping out of his bed.

“Shut up!” he hissed. He grabbed his dressing gown from the chair and tied it closed around his waist. “You’re drunk, again, and don’t know what you’re talking about.” He had to shove John to the side to get to the door to throw him out. John threw it shut and Sherlock rounded on him.

“Shut up!” he yelled again, into his face. John was much calmer than he felt, but then he was always calm in dangerous situations. And this was the most dangerous situation he had ever been in. He was on the verge of losing Sherlock forever this time.

Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and shoved him against the wall. He pressed down against his throat too tight, John could feel the bruise starting to form already, but it was good. It was grounding. It cleared his head off the alcohol a bit.

John remembered his own desperate plea for Sherlock to stop whatever John was doing to their friendship on his behalf and suddenly he was glad for him doing just that. John wanted it to stop, this sexual thing that he had started, that made Sherlock so uncomfortable and messing with John’s head even worse. But it didn’t mean it didn’t sting when Sherlock rejected him so hard. That’s the heart for you; always wanting what the head knew was bad.

John had to close his eyes when he saw the hurt in Sherlock’s.

“You don’t even want this,” Sherlock shouted still very much angry. John smirked.

“I really don’t, but I do,” he whispered breathlessly. Sherlock let go of his throat to run both his hands through his own hair. The moment his neck was free, John smoothed his hands over the sensitive skin, feeling the raw texture where it had cracked under Sherlock’s force.

“Undress and get on the bed,” Sherlock instructed in a far-away tone. John’s eyes grew wide. Was he really going to do this?

“Now!” Sherlock bellowed when John hadn’t done what he was told. John scrambled for his clothes, his fingers too clumsy to get work done on his buttons, but Sherlock, standing with his back to him and his fingers still in his hair, was not going to help him with that. Once John had opened the top buttons on his shirt he gave up on the job and simply pulled it over his head, together with the t-shirt he wore underneath. With his hands on his belt, he faltered for a moment. When Sherlock said “undress”, how much did he mean? Completely? Or just down to his pants? Could John ask him? He was thinking about it, when Sherlock finally turned around and looked him once over. His eyes swept over John’s body, his face utterly devoid of any emotion.

“When you’re done, get on your knees and hands in the middle of the bed, facing the window. I’ll be back in a moment. Hurry,” he directed John and then he was gone to the bathroom.

John could think clearer now then ten minutes ago. And while part of his very treacherous body still very much wanted this to happen, even his heart caught up on how stupid an idea this actually was. But his body worked on its own volition and his hands continued the work they started, ridding him of all of this clothes until he was completely naked. He climbed onto the bed and got into the exact position Sherlock had commanded him.

Sherlock was back less than a minute later.

“You’re not to say a single word,” Sherlock told him coldly, but he wasn’t able to hide the nerves in his voice. John heard the sound of fabric falling to the floor, most probably Sherlock’s dressing gown, and followed a moment later by something softer, maybe his pants. A tin was unscrewed and then there was the low sound of something half liquid, half solid applied to skin, a small squelching sound that sounded obscenely loud in the night air.

John jumped when wet hands grabbed his hips. The mattress dipped behind him where Sherlock’s knees dug into it, as he positioned himself between John’s legs and spreading them wider to make room for himself. A hand swept along his spine once in a featherlight touch that John was unable to interpret because it was so intimate it didn’t belong into the cold darkness. Two damp fingertips pressed against his anus and Sherlock took a deep breath before he put pressure on it. They sank in a few millimetres and it was John who took the deep breath now. Almost immediately his body worked on getting the intruders out but Sherlock didn’t relent. Mercylessly he kept pushing until they had sunken in a whole inch, then two. John whimpered a bit, unpermitted before Sherlock finally took his fingers out only to apply more vaseline on them and to put them right back into John’s arse. John couldn’t help it, he moaned.

It felt uncomfortable, but at the same time, it felt good. Because John knew it would stretch and maybe hurt at first, but that was the price to pay if he wanted to take Sherlock. And Sherlock did a good job of stretching him, of applying the vaseline generously inside of John, albeit emotionless. And it didn’t really hurt even. He was just unused to it, but it didn’t ache.

His mouth hung open and John didn’t reign in the noises that left him. The groans grew louder and he very nearly said something, against Sherlock’s earlier warning not to, when Sherlock’s third finger joined the first two. Yet this was only a preliminary. Before long he withdrew his fingers completely and John took the moment to take a few much needed deep breaths.

Sherlock hesitated. He could feel it. Again there was a sound of vaseline applied to flesh, where Sherlock stroked himself. How much John wanted to turn his head and watch, to check if Sherlock was hard at all or if he was struggling, how much did John want to say something. But that was Sherlock’s one rule and he was going to follow it to the letter.

Sherlock _was_ hard. There was no doubt about that when the blunt head of his cock pressed into John before John’s body, stretched open and wet, gave way for him. A few inches sank in and Sherlock’s hand grabbed at John’s hip and pulled him down the rest of the way. He fell forward over John’s back when he was fully in and his weight threw them both down. Sherlock thrust his hips into John and John groaned again. He thought with their fall and the awkward angle they would take a break, but Sherlock obviously had different plans. He kept on thrusting and John arched his back, difficult as it was under Sherlock’s weight, to meet him,

Both men were moaning by now and the air was filled with their grunts and the wet slap of skin against skin, high-pitched cracks that could not be misinterpreted by any bystander as to what was going on behind the door.

Just when John thought he couldn’t take any more and began to snake his hand underneath himself to finish himself off, Sherlock took his hand and intertwined their fingers. He pressed their hands into the mattress and John’s eyes became fixed on them. The way their different skin tones mixed and the different sizes of their digits, Sherlock’s so much longer than his own, was disturbingly fascinating to him. But it was when Sherlock began to mouth at his shoulder, that John lost it. He pressed his eyes shut now because he felt tears sting at their corners and he couldn’t allow that. Their entwined hands, Sherlock’s soft mouth kissing his shoulder, it felt too real, too intimate, too much as if Sherlock really wanted John, and all the while his cock was brushing past John’s prostate, pouring liquid fire into him.

“Please,” he murmured but couldn’t tell what he was begging for, only that he was begging. Sherlock’s pelvis snapped forward harder and faster. He turned the two of them more on their sides, making some space to touch John’s cock and did just that. In long strokes his hand flew over the hard flesh and John came just a second before Sherlock spilled into him.

Their panting afterwards was so loud. Sweat was already drying on John’s skin when Sherlock, who still held him around the waist and with his softening cock still inside him, against his front, pawed at the bedsheet to throw it over the both of them. He nuzzled John’s shoulder again, refrained from kissing it, but still his lips brushed against the skin. John shivered, but not from cold.

It was late and he was drunk and the orgasm did the rest, and John knew if he didn’t get up very soon, he would fall asleep right here. But Sherlock only tightened his grip on him as if he could read his mind and wanted John to stay. 

John woke up the next morning to warm sunlight shining directly into his eyes because they had fallen asleep the wrong way around, with their heads on the foot end and their feet on the pillows. John could only remember how close Sherlock had been to him, how his back was plastered to Sherlock’s front, because now, at 7 in the morning, John was alone. The bed behind him was already cold, telling him Sherlock had left long ago and John was hurting all over but only a small part of it was physical.

Last night, when Sherlock had kissed him so tenderly, John let himself imagine he wanted this as much as John did. But the empty bed spoke volumes and John could take a hint.

>>

Another sleepless night found John flirting with the whisky again. He absolutely needed to stop this because it made him do things he didn't want to be doing. It didn't mean it was easy to just ignore its siren call.

Even without the alcohol forcing his hands, or feet, he found himself outside of Sherlock's room, just checking. Just... looking. Not wanting anything. Just having a look, see if he was asleep or awake. John opened the door and immediately he could tell Sherlock was, in fact, awake. He hung his head. He didn't have an excuse, he hadn't thought this far. 

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked and did he sound resigned? Tired, maybe. John thought hard but nothing would come to mind that he could say and when the words came, he didn't have control over them.

"Is it okay if I just," he started but was able to stop himself before he could ask if Sherlock would allow him to share his bed. Just the bed. John didn't even want sex, because that's why he didn't have any alcohol. He didn't want sex, but when he was inebriated he couldn't stop himself. He fixed his eyes on the floor and just stopped talking.

"Never mind," he said after a too long while. And, "Sorry. I didn't know if you were in or out." That at least would do for an excuse, even though there was no way Sherlock would believe it for a second. But he always pretended to. He was a good man, Sherlock. 

"I'm here," he said now to lessen John's awkwardness and John nodded.

"Yeah," John said. He waited a few more seconds, letting the feeling of stupidity fully sink in before he left without another word. He shut the door behind him and sighed. That couldn't have gone worse, pretty much.

He stalked the flat for something like 10 minutes, berating himself for this _urge_ to get with Sherlock. John felt he was falling. Not in love, he was well past that point by now. It was like an addiction. He'd always likened Sherlock to that in his mind, was self-aware enough to know he depended on him for the sake of his sanity. But now, after he's had his touch a few times, John was addicted to that too. Even more so than to their lifestyle. He could feel his sheer sanity drip away with every hour he went without Sherlock's hands on him and John was shaking with it, with the desire to be back in his embrace. It was just too damned hard to resist.

John was back in Sherlock’s room before he knew it. This time, Sherlock didn’t say a word and John had trouble finding his own voice. He took much too long and at the end, he muttered a quick “Sorry!” and hurried away. If the world had come crashing down at that moment, John wouldn’t have minded. He’d have welcomed his death gratefully. But the absolute shame he felt didn’t stop John from repeating it not three minutes later.

His shoulder’s felt heavy and he couldn’t drag his eyes from the ground, but this time he went into the room, rounded the bed and stopped just before getting in, giving Sherlock a moment to voice his concern.

“Do you mind?” John asked without indicating what Sherlock would mind, but he figured he’d be able to deduce it anyways.

"No," Sherlock replied and John threw back the covers before the word even finished leaving his mouth. John felt so incredibly small. He curled up on his side, facing away from the other man as if that would make him disappear. He could feel Sherlock's confusion, but John couldn't do anything about it. He was confused himself. He had completely lost control over what was going on and it was infuriating. He was seething, but at the same time only half of his shivering was because of his anger at himself. The other half was because just lying in the same bed wasn't even close to being enough.

It wasn't the proximity he longed for, it was the touch.

John sighed and scooted closer, arse first until he bumped into Sherlock's side. Without looking yet purposefully he reached for Sherlock's arm and put it around himself, flatening the hand over his chest and immediately, John felt so calm.

Sherlock curled around him, he lowered his mouth to John's ear and whispered urgently, "Why are you doing this, John? You don't even really want this."

"I don't _want_ it to be you," John whimpered miserably. If he could change just one thing about all this, he'd direct his stupid, inane crush at anybody else, not at his best friend who hated distractions of the body and was too kind to deny John. He felt Sherlock stiffen behind him at the same time as his grip around John became more tight.

“Then why do you keep coming back to me? Surely you must know what it is doing to me?” he whispered loudly.

Of course John knew what he was doing to Sherlock. That was the worst thing about all this, the perfect knowledge of what he was asking of him. The bad conscience, the bitter taste of bile in his mouth whenever he thought of the disgust Sherlock must feel every time John made him touch him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said weakly. He squeezed his hand that was still on his chest and Sherlock curled his fist into his shirt.

>>

John couldn't look Sherlock in the eye. His shame sat too deep, he was walking around the flat on tip-toes, avoiding his flat-mate and sometimes-lover whenever he could which of course was as good as impossible in the small space they shared. His last fix didn't even last four days before he felt the unease crawl back under his skin and John grew fidgety, shaking his limbs in hopes of getting rid of the itch.

Less than a week after he had climbed into Sherlock's bed last, he sat in his chair at night and tried to read but couldn't concentrate. John was so focussed on ignoring Sherlock, that he didn't notice what he was doing until the flat was turned completely dark and he was forced to acknowledge the other man.

"What are you doing?" he asked croakily, his voice rough from disuse. It was only now that John heard it that he realised he hadn't spoken all day and possibly the last one, either.

"You're restless. It's driving me mad," Sherlock told him brusquely. John apologised in a small voice. 

"Don't," Sherlock reprimanded almost cruelly. His tone was at odds with the soft hands that pulled John up and after, into Sherlock's lap. With featherlight touches he unbuttoned John's shirt and then rid him of the t-shirt beneath, too. When John found the power to complain, half-heartedly, Sherlock kissed him for the first time. Even though it was only to shut John up, it made his heart beat so fast he felt dizzy and breathless. He got lost in the feeling of soft lips against his and then, when they descended down his chin and neck to his chest, everything around them was blocked out. It came as a surprise when he felt Sherlock enter him because he never noticed his pants being taken off. He sank his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and let him rock them both to completion. It was the easiest, the gentlest orgasm he remembered having and afterwards, for the first time, John was calm. It took a long time before the self-hate came back, but by then Sherlock had already manoeuvered him into his bed and curled up behind John with his arms slung around his middle.

Sherlock was gone when John woke up, but he could still remember his lips pressed against his shoulder just before he fell asleep.

>>

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: I have only the hint of an idea how to end this, but I love the story too much so far to let it die. So I'm crowd-sourcing this! How will it end?
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://yesilian.tumblr.com)


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